Cooking With Gas
by let-threedom-ring
Summary: 1940's High School AU. A storm is brewing and America is on the brink of joining the War. However, teenagers are on the verge of adulthood. Our favorite band of characters face the trials and tribulation of high school. All while living in the advent of the biggest war yet- each changing them in different ways. Will contain sock-hops, 40's slang and the works. Rated T for themes.
1. Prolouge

**This is the prologue to this story. Please keep in mind that this is my first real heavy duty sort of work, be patient.**

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It was a changing world.

A corrupt world, yet prideful. It was systematically chaotic. It was a world in which people were afraid to wake up to in the morning, but in other cases it was a world where that was why some people woke up. To change it. To make a positive impact in people's lives. In anyone's life. If only that's all it took. It was a world on edge with everyone and everything. There were conservative ideas awaiting to be made new, and the world was quick, fast and never in the same spot for a day. People of this world hung onto their beliefs tighter than ever, as well as their paychecks.

But yet it was a time that fear was a sole motive instead of intelligence or duty. When bigger was better and better was bigger. Most dauntingly, it was a time when moral values, no matter how once prized they were, were hidden in the shadows of success.

Death was very busy this year. It hadn't been this busy in some time. Death was effective, real and on anybody's doorstep at any time. And Death was fair. Unfeeling, but fair.

But this isn't a story about death.

Of course in any wartime, Death leaves devastation on its trail. The lands glittered with graves of civilians, heroes—the Unknown Soldier. The common man.

However, this world is like a soap opera, the bestselling novel. There must be death in order for something new to be born. This story will contain all the great components of every story, not for your reading pleasure, but because that it simply the way the world works. There will be heroes and losers. Betrayal and secrets. Love and the occasional fight. Action and bravery. Misfits and outcasts. The lost, the tainted and the lonely. Happiness and bliss. Sadness and the excitable.

But more importantly, this is a story of growing up. And all of the growing pains that come with it. And the people who we become because of them.

This story will include the following:

-Your typical American boy, waiting for a chance to prove himself. He, however, has a predetermined fate depending on the war.

-A rich, egotistical but caring inventor, with a few controversial family secrets.

-A student with anger complications, who chooses science as his haven. He too, knows information that makes it difficult to sleep at night.

-Two misfits, each escaping a past—or future—that is haunting. A Russian who left her country because of what would become of it, the other, an ex-carnie shaking off the long-ago experiences.

-A family of foreigners, trying to fit in. Including two brothers whose differences, which were pretty apparent from the start, become even more noticeable during the war—straining their already delicate relationship.

-Along with a few others, who are either trying to fit in or break out of society's status quo.

Our story starts in the hopeful soldier's living room. 7:45, September 1st. Senior Year.

It was a changing world. America was no different—especially in 1941.

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**Well, In case you didn't catch it, this is a 1940's high schools AU story. It will have the works- the slang, the music, the places, the expectations , the fashion and the historical aspect in every chapter. I will try to to make it accurate as possible, and seeing that my dad is a history teacher that shouldn't be too hard! This will take quite a bit of putting together though so please, I don't usually beg for reviews because quite honestly I find it sad, but this, to me, is different. If you can, please let me know if this is something that interests you- it would mean the world to me. But nevertheless, who wouldn't want to see the Avengers in high school during the 1940s?**

**BTW: "Cooking with Gas" is 40's slang for 'doing something right" (ya see how historical that was?)**

**And so the adventure begins...**


	2. Chapter 1

**So! Thank you all for your wonderful and helpful reviews, it was very appreciated! Now, before you start reading, let me warn you of a few things. First, this is the 1940s. Things are different, people stereotyped people all the time. So if I write something offensive in the future, I promise you that it should all be taken with a grain of salt. Those were the views at the time. Second, I know there are some words y'all probably wouldn't know... that's cuz it's the 40s! I'll certainly write out a list of some the main ones and what they mean at the end of each chapter. I also hope to give you some American trivia about what was happening in those days. Now, for any international reader that knows about what was happening during those days, please feel free to chime in! Now, I don't and never will own any of the Avengers (well maybe just Clint). And the adventure begins...**

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**Chapter 1**

"Steve, sweetie. You should go finish getting ready for school! You don't want to be late for your first day!" Steve's mother called from the kitchen.

She heard no sudden movement from the living room and poked her head out of the doorway to see why. Her son was staring fixedly at his shoes and was positioned so that he was facing the wall. She calculatingly put the delicate rose she was pruning down on the counter and walked over to Steve. It was the news again.

"Are you going to go all cold fish on me?" she said in a warm, low voice beside him.

She gently rubbed her son's back to prod him to attention as he listened intently to the radio. It was a few moments before when the news broadcaster just announced that the Germans had invaded Poland.

_"…and that wraps up your morning update. Thank you for listening. Tune in tonight at eight o' clock for the evening news," _reminded ABC's anchor. The fuzzy voice smoothly transitioned to Sammy Kaye's _Daddy_.

Steve sighed, unclenching his jaw. He always seemed to do that whenever he listened to the news. He blamed the war. He turned his face to kiss his mother on the cheek. "Sorry, mom. It's just… never mind." Steve knew his mother didn't want to hear any news of the war right now. She practically heard it everyday from him. Steve's mother gave a knowing nod.

"I know." Her bright blue eyes muted a little, but she smiled nevertheless.

Hauling himself off the canvas sofa, Steve kept staring at the radio on his way to the bathroom as if for some reason the broadcast would magically come back on again. He wanted to know even more about what was going on overseas. Who was invading who, what the Axis Powers were up to and if and when America was going to act.

A line formed on his forehead as he brushed his teeth, deep in thought. He made a mental note to come home from work as soon as he can to at least catch the middle of the broadcast. His father would have to fill him after. Steve rinsed his mouth, toothbrush and the sink. He then attended to his hair, which was still messy from this morning. He took a comb, wet it, and combed it out to the left side, making a straight, even part. Satisfied, his eyes travelled to his body and he looked at himself uncomfortably. He was still not used to the sight of it, with his prominent muscles outlined clearly through his solid white t-shirt. Sometimes he wondered if he made the right decision.

This past summer, scientists were looking for a candidate to try their new serum on—the Super Soldier Serum, they called it. The name intrigued Steve immediately so he looked at the requirements. They wanted someone still in high school so that they could be trained for the war with results of the serum during school—just in case America ever _did _enter the war. To be even more secure they made some special arrangements for Steve to be on the Varsity football team. They also didn't want adults because a teenager's body was still growing and functioning in different ways than adults do. There were many other reasons why Steve was the perfect candidate and with only a few candidates to choose from, Steve was easily selected. He remembered the researchers asking him a simple question before they made their decision.

"Why do you want to receive this serum?" was all they asked.

Steve remembered replying and explaining his passion for protecting others and that it didn't matter who the enemy was, the Nazi's or the tormenter down the street, he wanted to stand up to bullies. That seemed to be the winning answer because it was right then and there he was selected and within the next week he was brought to the labs and injected with the serum. There was so much more to the story but Steve didn't like to dwell on the topic for too long. It made him feel unpleasant.

His mother wasn't completely on board with the idea. Mainly because there was one condition: if America did go to war, Steve would be one of the first to be drafted, for any war, as long as he lived. They didn't want all their precious money and research in a sock-hop dancing the night away.

For now though, he pushed that looming thought aside and focused on what the short term consequences were going to be. Like today, the first day of senior year. Since he transformed only about a month ago, no one has really seen him in his new figure. Well, just Bucky.

Steve knew he had to brace himself for the countless amounts of stares and whispers that will be directed at him in the hallways. It wasn't every day that a scrawny kid with asthma becomes a model overnight. He thought that maybe with the new body he might be able to escape the attention that his feeble body attracted but he quickly realized it wouldn't. He couldn't even go to the grocer's and not get stared or whistled at by girls.

He hated the attention.

Racing for time, Steve rushed to his room to grab his bag and load all his materials. His mother already had a sandwich prepared for him by the entrance table. He opened up the paper sack. Peanut Butter on bread.

"See ya' Mom!" Steve hollered through the front door. He grabbed his fainted teal bike that leaned against the garage and rode off in a hurry. His hunter green pants complimented nicely with his crimson Varsity football sweater. It was a bit chilly this morning so Steve was pleased he decided to take it with him.

The high school wasn't too far away, just about four blocks south of his house. In fact, anyone could see it from practically anywhere they were- it was that big. Just a mundane square building built of bricks and glass windows. It had quite the lawn though. It stretched out many yards in front of the school, it's where most kids waited for sessions to start. And only a few years ago did they renovate the football and baseball field. It was pretty much the highlight of the school, as most students would say.

By the time Steve reached the front entrance, the bell had barely rung. He could see the hordes of students filing in the school like a huge wave crashing onto shore. He hastily tried to lock his bike up to one of the adjacent racks but it was no use—they were all full. He let out a frustrated sigh and searched for any others. But as long as he could remember, there were no others. He wondered why the sudden increase in bikes, the racks were hardly ever full.

Raking a hand through his short-lived neat blond hair, Steve decided that he would have to settle for the lamp post at the edge of the school property. He prayed to whatever God there was that he wouldn't get some sort of ticket. It was either that or be late for class.

Steve ripped out his schedule from his pant pocket. It read _P. Coulson, Government_. _B 204._ Second floor. Right next to Ms. Hill's classroom. He booked it up the stairs to the school and turned at the corners needed to reach his destination. The last of the crowds were trickling inside the classrooms, they were usually the late ones. It wasn't until he saw Bucky until he realized how late it was getting.

"Steve!" the dark-haired boy shouted down the halls. Bucky waved his hand to catch Steve's attention.

Steve gave a distracted wave back and continued to look for his classroom. The school wasn't _that_ big, but he figured he was getting a little lightheaded. Normally, he's have breakfast in the morning.

The late bell rung as soon as Steve spotted the right door. Mr. Coulson was waiting outside the door, ready to close it on any latecomers. Steve practically skidded to a halt before entering the class. Mr. Coulson raised an eyebrow and flattened his navy sweater vest.

"You are?" Mr. Coulson asked, scribbling something on the clipboard he held in his hands, his tone unimpressed.

"Rogers, sir. Steve Rogers," Steve answered nervously. Never had he been this late to school. He's never really had an excuse to, living so close to it.

Mr. Coulson looked down at his attendance sheet. "Ease up, Mr. Rogers. You aren't marked late. Yet."

A solemn 'thank you' was all Steve could muster. Mr. Coulson jerked his head sideways to signal Steve inside. Steve noticed the faintest smirk on his teacher's mouth.

In that moment, Steve really wished he hadn't even come to first period at all. Showing up to school and looking like a completely different person was bad. But at least then he could sneak in a chair and be not as noticeable. But coming in late to first period? You get the entire circus gawking at you.

Steve could already feel his face start to redden from all the pairs of eyes taking in his face and body, trying to put a name to the person. He passed rows of squeaky wooden desks until he found the only open seat left in the classroom. It didn't help that he could over hear some of the conversations drifting through the atmosphere.

"Who's _he"_?

"Is that _Steve Rogers_?"

"Say, take a gander at this dream boat."

"Shh! He can hear you…"

"Since when was he in _football_?"

The murmurs continued all around him until Mr. Coulson started etching something on the green, dusty chalkboard. It was a single word.

Poland.

As much as the word crushed Steve's nervous spirit it also relieved him. The class had something else to focus on besides his transformation.

Mr. Coulson dusted off his hands, not daring to wipe them on his sweater vest.

"Alright, class!" he began, "Can anyone tell me why I wrote that specific word on the board?"

Easily half the class shrugged their shoulders. Only a few looked like they were itching to say something, but of course, no one wanted to be the first to speak up on the first day of school and be pegged as the 'know-it-all' hotshot.

"Really, seniors? Anyone?"

Steve wanted to raise his hand badly, however that would just attract more unwanted attention. The class was starting to get restless and from the corner of his eye, Steve could make out Tony Stark falling asleep. Here was his teacher trying to bring the rest of America up to date with the latest news of the war outside their borders, which could potentially affect everyone in this room, and there was Tony mindlessly slipping away. Typical.

Out of sheer infuriation at his classmate's lack of awareness, Steve found himself raising his hand to answer the question, the other hand gripping the edge of his desk.

However, it appeared that someone else beat him to it.

Mr. Coulson's eyes lit up. "Yes… what did you say your name was again?" he asked, looking at a girl that Steve had never seen before, based on the shiny, coffee colored top of her head.

"Peggy Carter" came the reply, in a crisp, even tone. Some snickers erupted from the class. There was something off about the way she spoke. If Steve didn't know any better, he guessed it was an English accent. He couldn't get a clear view of her because of all the students blocking his him and she sat on the opposite side of the room.

"That's what I thought. So Ms. Carter, what is up with Poland, hmm?"

"I heard this morning that it was invaded." A collective stirring filled the room. "By Germany."

Loud groans of defeat were released and Steve swore he heard a few gasps coming from the row of girls in the back. Even Tony raised his messy-haired head at the news.

"That is correct, Ms. Carter. Nice going," the teacher said with a smile and turned around to erase the board to fill with this semester's goals. Steve expected him to elaborate on the topic, but his teacher didn't. Mr. Coulson suddenly swiveled around as if he had forgotten to say something.

"By the way, Peggy, welcome to America."

A foreign exchange student? They hardly received any of those. Like the rest of the class, it only caused Steve to be more curious about her. Especially with everything going on with England these days.

"Now, everyone take out their books and turn to page 394."

The rest of the class time passed slowly. Steve constantly eyed the clock above the blackboard checking to see if any time had passed at all. Suspiciously, after what felt like an hour, Steve would find that only ten minutes had gone by.

It was just as Steve was doodling the last of star of his majestic American flag in the margins of his notes, when the high pitch sound of the bell pierced through his thoughts.

There was the ruckus of students climbing out of chairs and skidding noises of Oxford shoes against the wooden floors.

"Don't forget to bring your homework! I will not except any excuses on behalf of your dog!" Mr. Coulson shouted to the herd of student cattle exiting the door.

Quickly, Steve stretched his head to spot Peggy, but she already had left the class.

He waved the small disappointment off. He'd probably catch her around school sometime later. Steve grabbed his stuff and headed for the door.

"Hold up, Mr. Rogers," Mr. Coulson ordered.

Steve watched as his teacher opened one of his desk drawers and took something out.

"Here, why don't you lock up you bike in the locker rooms. You have football practice after school anyway right?"

Mr. Coulson dropped a rusty key in the palm of Steve's hand.

"How did you know?"

"I watched you from the window. You looked like you needed some help." Mr. Coulson then pointed to Steve's sweater. "Plus, you're wearing your letterman."

Steve wasn't sure how to respond.

"You were watching me?" he asked, a little bothered.

Mr. Coulson laughed. It was short and throaty.

"No. Expecting. I was expecting you. That's why I didn't mark you late."

Pleasantly surprised, Steve closed his fingers around the key. It was cool to the touch.

"Thank you, Mr. Coulson. I appreciated it."

His teacher blinked in acknowledgement. "You better run like crazy or else you'll be late for your next class."

With that, Steve gratefully nodded his head and left the room.

The following periods held the similar routine. Staring and whispering. It wasn't until lunch did Steve let out a sigh of relief. There were too many people in the dingy cafeteria to be singled out.

Steve spotted Bucky in the corner of the mess hall, sipping on bottle of Coke. He walked over and pulled out a seat next to his friend.

Bucky glanced up at the noise of the chair scratching against the floor.

"Get lost Rogers. Your way to cool to sit with me." Bucky tilted his chair on it's back legs and his lips pulled into an amused smile.

"Knock it off. I don't want to talk about my reputation right now," Steve grumbled. He whipped out his brown paper bag and pulled out his sandwich. He gave it a whiff before eating it. The smell of peanut butter was enough to cheer him up to some extent.

"Good ol' Steve. Enjoying life's simple pleasures. Never change."

Steve shrugged. Bucky noticed that it was a disheartened shrug. It lacked the usual movements that a normal shrug would consist of. "Depending on how this war plays out, I may not get many more of these," Steve said softly, but in an alarmingly nonchalant way. As if they were talking about the weather.

Bucky remembered the condition his friend agreed to. He had to admit it was a heavy cross to bear.

He playfully elbowed Steve. "But hey, with what you've got going on," Bucky gestured to Steve's figure, "you are going to be a war hero! Call me then, and that's when we're talking about life's pleasures!" Bucky leaned over and ruffled Steve's hair. Steve retaliated by throwing his paper bag in his face.

"Never throwing the first punch. I like you, Rogers."

Steve chuckled at how he was alluding to his former body. Passerby's most likely though that the duo's antics were immature, but everyone knew how close the two boys were. They were practically brothers.

"So, you gonna come over to my house and goof-off tonight?" Bucky asked, waggling his eyebrows.

"Ah, no. I have work remember?"

"We could go out for a bender after…."

Steve rolled his eyes. His friend never quite got that 'no' means 'no'. "My shift doesn't end until 7:30. Then I've got something to do when I get home."

Bucky scooted closer and leaned in an enquiring manner. His brown eyes questioned 'you're going to listen to tonight's broadcast aren't you?'. What sometimes frustrated Bucky was that half their conversations lead to something about the war. Now more than ever.

Steve licked his lips and didn't respond. He knew Bucky would take it as a 'yes'.

Bucky was about to reply when someone entering the cafeteria caught his eye. He stood up a little straighter to get a clear picture.

Steve tried to follow Bucky's gaze, but with his friend's eyes darting up and down he couldn't.

"Who are you looking at?"

With a jerk of his head, Bucky said, "Her. The stacked red-head."

Steve glared at him dismissively. Leave it up to Bucky to notice a girl's body before her face. Still, Steve's gaze stumbled upon Bucky's target.

He had to hand it to him, Bucky was right. Without even seeing her face clearly, Steve could tell that she was striking. Her short curled hair clashed rather loudly with her black and grey floral patterned dress that reached the knees. Her stature was the most noticeable, even to Steve's pure mind he thought she would make an acceptable pin-up girl—not that he owned any, but Bucky sure did. She was looking around the cafeteria curiously, he also noticed that she took small, watchful steps whenever she walked.

Steve finished the last of his sandwich. "I've never seen her before."

Bucky chuckled, still tracking her with his eyes, "That's because she's new. I forgot where she's from but she's not from America. I have her in my English class."

That interested Steve. Another exchange student?

"That's weird. There's girl in my government class that's from England."

Bucky broke contact with the red-head. "Oh yeah?" he raised his eyebrows, "Is she pretty?"

Steve frowned indifferently, "I couldn't see her face. She's smart though."

Bucky looked at Steve admiringly, "Always going for the smart ones. Good on you. Never change."

After Bucky's comment, the conversation stayed lively. The two friends talked about everything. They discussed baseball standing, movie releases, and they compared how much homework they each have tonight. They switched over to what new records were out, if Bucky was going to get a dog or not, how many apple pies they could consume before they got sick. They dappled the past and old school memories, and just about any other topic that came to their minds. There was only one topic either of them hardly ever touched, mostly out of uncertainty. Steve and Bucky tried their hardest to never bring up the future. It was a subject that most teenagers were at a lost for.

By the time they had run out of topics to discuss the bell had rung, signaling the end of lunch. Bucky headed one direction while Steve headed the other, but not before being practically knocked over.

"Hey, watch were you're going Rogers," a distinctive and discontented voice said.

Tony Stark, the same kid who was almost drooling in class, was standing defensively in front of Steve. His arms were crossed and his feet were firmly planted on the ground. Now, to no extent was he taller than Steve. Steve towered over the billionaire, but his confidence clearly made up the difference. Maybe in Steve's former body would he have cut an eye at Tony and walked away, but that was the beauty of Steve's transformation. He no longer had to.

Steve positioned himself just as relaxed as Tony. "I didn't do anything, Stark." He kept his voice cool and collected. He didn't want things to escalate.

"Really? Because I think you want to show everyone just how much is going to change around here with your brand new 'form'."

"The only thing changing around here is you." Never before had Tony Stark had a direct problem with Steve so he was supremely confused as to why he was picking a fight now. Tony had his denim long-sleeve tucked in to his black denim pants. His white undershirt was just peeking out from underneath. Steve barely noticed that someone was arriving up beside Tony. She didn't look very happy.

"I am obviously not a 'thing', Rogers. Belittling people isn't the best way to make friends…" Tony's jaw tightened with a smirk. He eyed the table where Steve was sitting out. There were only two chairs.

"You would know what that's like wouldn't you?" Steve retaliated, a hint of callousness of pity in his voice. It occurred to him that he hardly ever saw Tony with much company. Only when he was in the labs or in his not exactly crummy jalopy did Steve Tony socializing with people.

Tony's eyes flashed at Steve. However, if Tony was hurt by the comment, he didn't show it.

"Let's go Tony." A red-head pulled Tony's arm in the other direction. She looked extremely fed up.

Tony barely had the time to tell Steve in a low tone, "See you around. Captain America," before finding himself being dragged away by his gutsy friend.

Those two words, _Captain America_, alarmed Steve to the core. No one was supposed to know that information. It was top secret, and practically impossible to discover.

So how did Tony Stark find out?

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**-cold fish: an unresponsive person**

**-stacked: having a nice female figure**

**-ease up: relax**

**-take a gander: take a look**

**-bender: drinking spree**

**-jalopy: a car (usually one that has been fixed up)**

**Quick fact(s): Germany did invade Poland on Sept 1 ,I'm not sure what time though and the song 'Daddy' was actually top of the charts for September. And I know I suck at describing fashion and clothing, so I encourage you to Google some up to get what I'm talking about. Everything is pretty conservative in the early 40's, bikini's weren't invented until much later and the t-shirt believe it or not, wasn't in circulation until 1943! Just to give you folks some perspective!**

**In all seriousness, I would really like to know how I did. Was there too little history? Too much? How about the whole high school part? MOST IMPOTANTLY... do I have good characterization?! Because to me that's the most essential part. I'm really insecure about my writing, so ANY constructive criticisms, concerns, compliments, complaints is HIGHLY appreciated! Thanks for the read!**

**-ltr **


	3. Chapter 2

**Hello! Thank you for the reviews and reads! I hope you find this next chapter more colorful. (and it's longer...)**

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**Chapter 2**

With a gentle push, Bruce locked the laboratory door closed. It was 7 o'clock in the morning, about an hour before school started.

Dr. Selvig was considerate enough to give Bruce access to the school's lab rooms anytime he wanted. That was after a particularly long conversation about how Bruce's father treated him, Bruce's anger condition, and the potential the he saw in Bruce to be a notable scientist. Bruce guessed that Dr. Selvig pitied him, but if it came with complete access to everything in the storage room, equipment and all, he really couldn't care less.

It occurred to Bruce that he spent most of his time behind a microscope or test tubes than he did anywhere else. Before school, he came to this classroom and did small experiments. Well, actually he used the other lab room most of the time. There were only two in the entire school, but there was an incident in the other one. Lots of broken glass everywhere and some spilt chemicals, it was actually quite the talk around the school because many of their expensive tools and machinery were no longer usable. It cost them lots of money which was the sole reason as to why the cheerleaders didn't get new uniforms this year.

However, Bruce was beyond relieved when Dr. Selvig let him use this one.

After school, four times a week, Bruce took a taxi to another part of town, the wealthier part, and went to another laboratory. He was paid to clean petri dishes and test tubs while actual scientists and chemists did their work. It wasn't much money, but Bruce didn't care. It gave him an excuse to escape his father and seeing what it was like to be in the big leagues never failed to fascinate him.

Bruce took off his gray coat and threw it casually on a stool. He washed his hands and began to work.

For the most part, Bruce worked alone. By himself, every day. Occasionally, but very rarely, Dr. Selvig would pop in and see how Bruce was coming along, if he needed any help or if he was okay in solitude. But that was only when Bruce was a freshman, and since he was a senior now, Dr. Selvig never checked up on him. As for the loneliness, Bruce told himself that it was okay, that is shouldn't bother him and it was natural.

He has been telling himself that for years.

Even more rarely, once in a blue moon, Tony Stark would come at lunch and see what Bruce was up to. Bruce had to admit that Tony was a great scientist but an even greater inventor. Sometimes over the years, they'd try to invent things together or they'd just goof around with the chemicals. Two curious minds were more dangerous than one.

Although Bruce sometimes missed those days, he figured that Tony grew up. Who would want to hang around with the school's most awkward nerd? Especially when you're a billionaire? Bruce, for the most part, didn't blame him. There were times though, when Bruce wondered what had happened between them and what was the hallow feeling in his chest that he was experiencing now.

Bruce shook the thoughts away and raked a hand through his extremely curly jet-black hair. He pushed the bridge of his glasses up and reached into his backpack for a textbook.

While setting up a slide for his microscopes, Bruce heard a sharp noise coming from within the storage room. Like the sound of a beaker being dropped.

Immediately, Bruce's heart rate quickened. He wasn't sure if it was because of the sudden clash or because the noise meant he wasn't alone. He cautiously put down his slide and slowly walked toward the storage room's wooden doors.

"Dr. Selvig?" Bruce called out attentively. "Are you okay?"

No response.

Bruce gave it another shot, inching closer. "Dr. Selvig, is that you?"

Nothing happened. Bruce was certain he heard something break.

"Tony," Bruce warned, "are you trying to scare me again? Because we both remembered what happened last time you did that…" For Bruce, it wasn't very pleasant. The bruise that was on Tony's arm after the occurrence was enough proof.

Still no response. Giving up, Bruce opened the door.

To his surprise, it was neither Dr. Selvig nor Tony. In fact, it wasn't a person at all. It was a mouse.

The little white rodent must have escaped from his cage. It's black beady eyes looked up triumphantly at Bruce, and let out a soft victorious squeak. Bruce sighed and picked up the broken beaker. He was just about to pick up the mouse when a random shout came out of nowhere.

"Oh my God! You found him!"

Bruce spun around on his heels and found himself staring at a… _girl._ Not that he hasn't seen one before, of course, but in the laboratory? Before school? Wearing protective goggles? Never.

"I've been trying to smoke him out of that corner for an hour—not literally of course." Before Bruce could even reply, the girl—who Bruce believed to be Jane Foster from his calculus class—lifted the mouse from his hands and went to the back of the room to place him in his cage among his other furry friends.

Over her shoulder, Bruce could make out the white rodent's gloomy expression. It started to sulk around it's cage, paying no attention to the other sleeping mice.

While her back was turned to him, Bruce reevaluated the situation. First, how on earth did she get in here? It's locked and only he had the keys. Second, what was she doing with a mouse and third, what was she doing in the labs? Girls weren't allowed to become scientists. Or they just didn't. Not that Bruce agreed, but every girl he's ever had to talk to all want to be nurses or stay home mothers—or the next singing sensation.

Jane Foster, looking tired and exasperated, returned, taking off her gloves and goggles. Bruce just kept staring at her in awe. And gradual admiration.

It was then that Jane unfortunately remembered where she was and who she was with.

She bit her lip and looked at Bruce with pleading brown eyes. "Please, Bruce. Don't tell Dr. Selvig about this. Or Principle Fury. Or anyone, really."

Bruce found himself shaking his head 'no' despite his shock. He was surprised that Jane even knew his name.

Things got awkward after that, Jane sort of slid against the shelf and sat on the floor, head drooped. The silence was almost tangible between them. She admonished herself for being so careless. Imagine if Dr. Selvig came in? Or worse her friends? Her reputation, the single most important thing, it seemed, in high school would have been tarnished.

As if Bruce was reading her mind, he crouched down to her eye level and said, "Well, um, I think that's pretty cool. I mean you being a girl and all. Liking science, I mean." Talking to girls was never Bruce's forte.

Jane lifted her head but averted her eyes away from him, her soft brown curls fell off her shoulders. "Yeah, well, you'd be the first," she mumbled, but smiled kindly at Bruce's compliment.

More awkward silence.

"Do you do this often?" Bruce asked after what felt like an eternity. He decided to settle himself on the floor opposite to Jane. Even though nothing was blocking their view, they both were talking to the tile floor instead to each other's faces.

"What? Come before school starts to do experiments forbidden of me because of my gender and hide them away so that my friends don't know about it? Or losing mice that seem to have an air of defiance?"

Bruce chuckled at the last part. The sound of it startled him, he hadn't laughed in a while. It felt warm. And good.

He traced the tile's edges with his fingers, "Uh, the first one."

Jane didn't know what to do, she was still mentally scolding herself. Being caught and sharing her secret in a room with a boy she barely knew wasn't how she planned her morning to be like. She just watched Bruce's fingers move. "I come here about twice a week, if I'm lucky maybe a third."

"How did you get in?" Bruce asked, curious.

"I bring my friend along with me. She good with locks."

"Does she know what you do back here?"

Jane shook her head 'no'. Now Bruce wasn't an expert on body language, but to him it looked like Jane's friend not knowing that she's breaking the unwritten status quo killed her. As if Jane wanted to share it with _someone._ Instead she was stuck with him.

Progressively, Bruce stood up from the floor. Jane's gaze followed Bruce's body until she meet his eyes.

"Uh, look. If you want to do this kind of stuff so badly, then you can work with me." Bruce offered, not really sure why he suddenly posed the idea to her. He then quickly added, "I mean, if you want to. You don't have to, I'm not pressuring you or anything. I just thought that since you're alone sometimes, you'd want to-"

This made Jane laugh. "I'd like that."

"So…"

"So, yes. Yes I'd like to work with you." Jane confirmed with a smile. She pushed herself off the ground and smoothed down her tan pleated skirt. Bruce awkwardly held out a hand so he could help her up, but she didn't notice it. He then hid it behind his back.

They looked at each other with new inquisitiveness. Bruce let Jane exit the storage room first and then followed her out. Together they worked side by side behind lenses and magnifying glasses. They made idle chatter about school, classes and whether or not certain chemicals were going to react to the solutions they had created. To Bruce, it was the first time in a long time where he felt he could share just about anything he wanted. Well, science stuff of course. He never dared to share personal information. Not even to Tony. The pair poked and prodded at specimen and they were extremely surprised when the bell had rang for school to start.

Jane looked up at Bruce from her slide, "Wow, that was quick."

Bruce started to wrap up the microscopes and chords. He nodded shyly, "We didn't even begin to document our results."

The word 'our' made Jane's heart skip. The good kind, though. She realized how relieving it was that Bruce was on her side and he didn't think of her any less of her before today's encounter. And that she was wrong about her theory before, it was good to work with someone instead of being by yourself. Also, not _all_ boys were interested in cheerleaders.

"Don't worry, we'll finish up on Thursday."

Bruce gave a passive shrug. He hated waiting.

"Do you need any help cleaning up?" Jane asked. Although she sounded genuine, Bruce could tell she was itching to go to her first period. She was shuffling closer to the door by the second.

Bruce shook his head, "No, I've got it. You can go ahead."

Before Bruce could listen to her reply, he felt himself being squeezed from behind. The sudden contact startled him and out of instinct he bristled. He squared his shoulders and whipped his head around.

Jane suddenly backed off, feeling Bruce's muscles tense up. She dropped her arms from around his waist and stepped back.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have done that…" Jane looked at Bruce's hands, which were tightening into fists.

Bruce glanced down at his fists, mildly alarmed. He had an acquaintance, _and _she was a girl, for half an hour and yet he still managed to spook her.

"No," Bruce apologized gruffly, "I shouldn't have done _that_. Sorry. I didn't mean to blow a fuse."

Jane shook her head violently. "Don't apologize. I sometimes get too excited and just do things without thinking. My fault." The pair waited for someone to apologize next, but no one did. They chuckled at that.

"I just—thank you again. For not telling anyone," Jane said to Bruce after a beat, she meant every word of it.

Bruce waved his hand dismissively. "Of course. But maybe next time we could start with shaking hands?" he replied. Jane saw the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly.

She laughed, embarrassed. "Right, yes. I'll save the hugging for some other time."

Bruce nodded, pleased with her decision. Sounded like a plan.

Back in good spirits, Jane gave a gentle wave. "See ya later alligator!" She turned around and left the room, her curls bouncing as she did so. Bruce blinked at the term- that was a new phrase for him.

For the most part though, Bruce was wondering what the hell had just really happened in the last 30 minutes. He had a feeling that his life was going to get a bit more interesting and a lot less lonely.

Finally.

The vibrations of the sewing machines did nothing but fuel Natasha's annoyance. She really hated Home Economics. No, she _abhorred_ it. It was only literally the third week of school and she decided that this was the worst course she'd ever taken in her life. She mindlessly watched her hands run fabric underneath the foot of her machine. Maybe if there was enough fabric leftover from the dress she was supposed to be making, she could conjure up a fashionable noose—for whoever though that this class was actually a necessity for graduation.

It wasn't that she was awful at making clothing, her forest green dress was coming along quite nicely in comparison the train wreck skirt her classmate was working on, but she would rather be at home swinging away on a homemade punching bag, or climbing her neighbors' trees to read with a fantastic view. Sometimes, when Mrs. Daly asked the class to present their projects, Natasha wished she was back in Russia—just for that time period. But then she'd let her mind wander off to the events that had been happening in the past couple of months and she reminded herself that America was a far better place to be.

A far safer place to be.

Still, a girl could dream.

Natasha lifted her foot off the petal and cut the remaining thread off her dress. She let out an accomplished sigh and got up from her chair to show her teacher that she was finally done with nuance of an assignment.

"Mrs. Daly, I'm finished."

Mrs. Daly held up a finger. She was writing something down in her grading book. Not only did her teacher's personality bug Natasha, (she was demanding and patronizing) but so did her face. Mrs. Daly always wore more makeup than necessary. It was as if she was auditioning for the circus—and Natasha knew a thing or two about the circus. They were, in fact, quite famous in Russia. Rumor had it that she was trying to impress another faculty member on campus—even though she was married. It was kind of pitiful actually.

After a few beats, she looked up at her student with expectant over-the-top eyes. Then they wandered over to Natasha's dress, where they lost all hope.

"Natasha," Mrs. Daly began in a hesitant tone, "what on earth is _that_?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow. Her dress wasn't that bad. Sure, the sleeves were lopsided and the hems were uneven and there were some places were the fabric was pinched together but it wasn't unrecognizable.

"It's a dress."

Mrs. Daly squinted her eyes. "It doesn't _look_ like one. It looks like something a dog tore up."

Although Natasha felt like shoving the piece of cloth down the woman's throat, she kept voice even. Okay, maybe with a little edge to it.

"Well, as you can see it has sleeves, a bodice and skirt, therefore it is a dress." Natasha handed her project over for her teacher to inspect.

"Hmm... I see your point. However, this is atrocious. It must be redone. No self-respecting woman would ever _wear_ this—especially if they wanted to impress a man. Now here," she plopped the fabric on the desk, "restart this and come back next week with an improved version of this nonsense."

What?! Make another dress up from scratch? Again? Natasha put in too much effort in this project, more than she wanted to admit. No way was she going to start all over.

Natasha pushed the dress back towards her teacher. "Actually, Mrs. Daly you instructed us to make a dress. You never said it had to have any special requirements. I think my dress is fits that description," Natasha reasoned with clenched teeth. To make the situation pleasanter, she added, "Besides, isn't the concept of beauty relative?"

Mrs. Daly looked at Natasha in incredulity. "Of course not! Honestly, Natasha." Then her voice went soft with concern and pity. "Look, I understand that all this must be new to you. Sometimes I forget you just moved here from halfway around the world! Maybe _that_ is how things are made in Russia, but that is certainly not how they are done here. We take pride in our work."

That was what set Natasha over the edge. She snatched the dress off the desk and ripped it up in shreds.

"Wow. For a country who takes 'pride' in their work, their quality of it sure is cheap!" Natasha stated. "Так же, как вы!" she muttered under her breath.

Scandalized, Mrs. Daly stomped out of the room. The rest of the students were torn between giving Natasha a cold glare, rejoicing, and whether to burst out laughing or not. Natasha herself wasn't entirely sure what to do. Should she return to her seat? Should she follow Mrs. Daly? Should she just leave the class? Suddenly it dawned on Natasha what the consequences of her actions may be. She could be expelled from the school. All that hard work, and blood, that her parents sacrificed to send her here would be for nothing. The more she dwelled on the prospect of having to go back, the more she wanted to cry. She didn't of course. But she felt like it, she felt like a despicable daughter and human being.

Natasha took a deep breath. It was resolved; she was going to go apologize—despite how much she didn't think her teacher deserved it.

She grabbed her backpack and books and headed to the entrance of the door and then found herself crashing against someone else who was trying to enter the same classroom. The impact made her drop her books where they fell with a clash. She had just paid for those books too.

"Oh, uh sorry," came the gruff reply from the boy she had just collided with. He crouched down and picked up any remaining books from the floor, he promptly handed them to her.

He had a slight stockier build than most of the teenage boys here, yet not as much as the football players, Natasha noticed. His hair was a sandy color and ruffled a bit. His grey eyes contrasted with his sharp jawline and they looked expectant, as if he was waiting for her to say something. He looked familiar to Natasha…

Natasha realized he was waiting for a response. "Ah, thank you," was all she said in return.

He did nothing but walk into her classroom—which was peculiar because no boys ever went into the sewing room. Natasha shrugged and continued down the hallway. _Americans_.

"Hold up!" the same voice shouted. She turned around and saw the boy catching up to her. She stopped in her tracks, marveling at what the kid in the dark green plaid shirt could possibly want with her.

The boy stepped in synch to Natasha's walk. "You're the new girl right?"

Natasha suspiciously narrowed her eyes, this better not be another guy wanting to ask her out. She didn't move here so she could date. If so, he's be third boy to ask since school started.

"Yes." She responded steadily, pushing a red curl behind her ear. "What do you want?"

"I'm supposed to show you around."

"Show me around? Where? Why?" she asked distrustfully. The boy obviously got her suspicious vibe.

"Listen, I'm not doing this for kicks. Your teacher told me to show you around the campus. Something about you 'needing to realize where you are'. I dunno what she was on about, but she's a real pistol isn't she?"

One thing Natasha found so confusing and anoying about their culture was all the words they made up to represent what they were saying. Why did they have to make up words? Why couldn't they just say what they actually meant? Not understanding what phrases meant only made her feel more like an outcast. For example, last week a girl in her English class said to watch out for this boy who was attempting to "make a pass with you". Natasha just stared blankly back and the girl, Pepper, had to explain what it meant. Evidently the idiot was trying to flirt with her. After, the girls befriended each other. Maybe it was because of how bright both of their hair colors were. They were the only two red-heads in the school.

Natasha digressed to their conversation. "No offense, but I have no idea what you said."

He raised his eyebrows, "Uh, she's dynamic. She's got a wild personality?" He hoped that made more sense to her.

"Oh, I see. Thanks. Yes, she does," Natasha frowned.

"Well, come on. We don't have all day!" the boy sighed.

"Go where?"

"Around campus! Don't you listen?" the boy asked, annoyed. She was pretty all right, but she was a bit slow.

"I don't need to be shown around. I've been here for almost a month. Just go back to class."

The boy shook his head, "No way. I hate philosophy." Natasha eyed the kid curiously.

"What's your name?" she asked.

To Natasha's surprise, the boy looked like he was trying to remember it.

"How 'bout I make you a deal. I'll tell you my name, if and only if, we take a tour?" he offered, sticking out his hand for an agreement.

Natasha pondered at the outstretched hand. "Fine." She finally agreed and they shook on it—both of their shakes were equally firm.

"Clint Barton," he said, smiling triumphantly. He looked Natasha up and down. Not in the perverted way but in a way in which he was measuring up another boy.

"Natasha Romanoff" she replied and did the same. Then, to Clint's surprise, she suddenly tugged him down to her eye level.

"If you try anything on me, one sudden move, I _promise _you, that this will be the last time you will be walking around these halls—without a wheelchair," Natasha whispered in almost a growl. This is what scared they last boy off and it seemed to work on everyone. Except Clint.

Clint only smirked. "Got it." He straightened himself up and begun walking to the end of the hall, keeping Natasha in check. "By the way, I don't do 'moves'. In fact, I can hardly stand you girls."

Well that was a first to Natasha. "Don't worry, I can hardly stand them too," she sighed.

A low, deep rumble came from Clint's throat and flowed out his mouth. A hearty, resonant laugh filled the empty halls and silence. Oddly, the sound made Natasha feel as if she skipped a few steps down a staircase. It felt peculiar—she had never experienced a feeling like this before. Which made her the slightest bit uncomfortable.

"Let's get this over with…" Clint mused and opened the exit door so the tour can commence. With that. Natasha had forgotten about Mrs. Daly, the dress and even her parents. Right now she was focused on one thing; why her fortress for a heart had been breached.

* * *

**Alrighty! **

**-smoke out: force out**

**-blow a fuse: to get angry**

**Quick Fact: many teenage girls actually did have some type of home economics class like sewing. They were also taught how to properly do laundry and were shown beauty culture. Very interesting times... maybe just not Natasha's style.**

**Penny for your thoughts? I hope you all enjoyed. Who do we want to see next...?**

* * *

**-ltr**


End file.
